No Small Thing
by FearsomeCritter
Summary: ***Recently updated! Made a few revisions on wording and formatting, finally figured out how to get it all on one page! Feedback on writing is appreciated :) ***Strong Trigger Warning for sexual assault*** Takes place after the airport in Civil War. Wanda tells no one about her most recent trauma.


This is a story I wrote to help process my own assault. I relate most to Wanda and telling my story (some minor differences in setting obviously) through her has been super therapeutic. Feedback is very appreciated, but please be kind :)

Also in case you missed it there is a ****trigger warning**** for sexual assault

* * *

It was such a small thing.  
At least, that's what her traumatized brain would tell her later, in the dark of the night.  
They had been separated when they reached the compound. The room she was taken to was dark and cold. She was ordered to undress and redress in the clothing given to her, and she did as she was told. A guard hovered only a foot or two away and watched. She looked at him in irritation but decided not to say anything.  
When she was down to her undergarments, he moved suddenly and quickly and pushed her against the wall.  
"Hey -" she started to say.  
"Quiet," he grunted.  
She obeyed, suddenly feeling trapped. There were cuffs around her wrists dampening her abilities. She thought she could probably summon something, but it might not be enough. And, if she fought back there would be far-reaching consequences, both for her right now and her friends in the long-term. But maybe someone would hear, someone would come in -  
He was using both hands to grope her bare skin. He didn't stop there, but continued to probe underneath what little else she had on. She could hear his rapid breathing and feel his body quivering with excitement as he roamed. His breath stunk in her face and the wall was cold on her cheek. She tried to move away but he gripped her tighter and she whimpered quietly.  
"Shut UP," he growled. She started to shake.  
Her brain was in a tailspin. Right now, she didn't feel like the powerful woman she'd become. Right now, she was a prisoner, and underneath his weight she felt like nothing more than the skinny little girl she'd been before she'd become enhanced. So she submitted.  
She felt his hand grope between her legs and his crotch rub up against her thigh. When his fingers slipped into her, she let out a little gasp, and squeezed her eyes shut. She was dizzy, and when she opened her eyes, she felt her mind starting to split in a way that had nothing to do with her abilities. As the split became deeper she stepped outside of her body, where she was safe and couldn't feel what was happening. But she could still see it.  
She wasn't sure how long they were there, how long she watched the guard have his way. She stayed very still, only a few soft gasps and groans of discomfort periodically escaping her lips. She didn't let herself cry as he hissed degrading, vulgar insults into her ear. Finally the guard's body relaxed. His breathing had changed to long, slow breaths of relief.  
The guard stepped back, zipping his pants up as he did so. She still clung to the wall, but she chanced a sideways glance at him through her hair. He was looking at her with disgust.  
"Put these on," he muttered, and he picked up and threw the clothes at her feet.

* * *

Later, she sat with her back to the wall, enveloped in a tight straightjacket and collar that blocked her abilities. There was no need, she thought. She obviously wasn't going to put up a fight.  
Her friends called out to check on her. She kept her replies back simple and positive.  
"Yes, I'm fine," "No, they didn't hurt me."  
All the while she sat with her knees tucked up to her chest and her ankles crossed in front of her.  
Her body felt strange. She was uncomfortable, and she felt that if she could just crawl out of her skin she might find some relief. She was terribly tense, and deep within her pelvis she was cramping and sore. Periodically, she tried adjusting her position to calm muscles that wouldn't relax. She wanted a shower desperately. She wanted to stand and soak under scalding hot water, but she knew that wasn't an option so she tried to just imagine it instead.  
After the first day she didn't say much. She'd mostly just sit, thinking, trying not to think, and trying to beat down the growing sense of claustrophobia in her chest.  
At night, she'd wake up with her heart pounding. Phantom hands gripped and invaded her. She'd stay quiet, and stare at the unflinching gray of the ceiling, tracing patterns that weren't there, until the hands stopped. Then she'd wish her arms were free so she could wipe the tears from her eyes.  
The boots made her the most afraid. She would hear doors open, the sound of unfamiliar male voices, and then the footsteps would start.  
Each time the footsteps approached she'd sit with her back against the wall, watching, and waiting. They always looked like him at first, to her. It was never him again, but every time she heard the footsteps she found herself bargaining with whatever higher power might be listening:  
'Please God please leave me alone. Please don't let him come back.'  
Sometimes they came for her, and by the time they came in, she was usually so panicked she thought her head might burst. But she stayed quiet, and tried not to let it show. It was all routine, food, breaks, questioning. No one laid a hand on her again.  
Long after they were gone, day or night, the tension in her chest remained. It grew everyday, and it choked and suffocated her in a way the jacket and collar never could.

* * *

Finally, it was time to leave.  
They escaped on a rainy, cold night that could have been the same night they'd arrived. It started with the doors opening, and then bootsteps. She thought she heard familiar voices but her heart jumped into her throat all the same.  
By the time the Captain arrived at her cell, she'd calmed some, and when he pulled the jacket and the collar off she took a long, deep breath. She tried to hide her trembling by shaking out her arms and offering a smile.  
"Are you hurt?" the Captain asked.  
She smiled softly and shook her head.  
"I'm ok."  
She followed them out, saying little, and glancing over her shoulder as they went.  
She left the jacket, and the cell, and the guards in the compound. But she wasn't able to leave everything. On the jet, a hand on her shoulder reminded her of this.  
The drone of the engine drowned out any sound softer than a shout, so she didn't hear him approach. She only felt his large hand on her shoulder and she jumped and spun around. Red sparks leapt at her fingertips and her eyes shone scarlet.  
"Hey, sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, I just thought you'd want some water?"  
She laughed it off, and he laughed too and clapped her on the shoulder ("We made it out! Geez the farm and a cold one sound pretty good right now.")

* * *

At night it was like she'd never left the first cold, dark room.  
She dreaded sleep. Her dreams took her back there. Not always, but it was often enough and unpredictable enough that she sometimes decided it wasn't worth the risk. She ate just enough to keep going, and stayed busy so her mind never had time to drift.  
She told no one.  
Some days, she was cranky without really understanding why. Little things set her off, anything that reminded her of feeling powerless, and trapped.  
"Ow," a teammate would say, after her psionic blast had thrown them to the ground just a little too hard, "that's the last time I come at you from behind, Jesus."  
She never offered an explanation. She buried it deep, and moved forward.

* * *

The first time she told, it was 4a.m. and she had barely slept in a week.  
She'd been sitting up, sipping an herbal tea after another nightmare, when her only female teammate had silently joined her.  
"Jesus Christ," she jumped, "where the hell did you come from?"  
"You're awful jumpy," was the reply by way of greeting, "bad dreams?"  
"Yes," she said simply.  
"I'm sorry," a pause, "Is it your brother?"  
She hesitated, "No, it's not, actually."  
"Do you want to talk about it?"  
The mug was warm beneath her hands and she wished she could crawl into it.  
"Can I tell you something?"  
"Always."  
"You won't tell anyone?"  
The older woman sat forward, her demeanor suddenly very serious.  
"It won't leave this room."  
It was silent for a few moments. It took effort to open her mouth, but when she finally did, the words wouldn't stop coming. She gripped the mug tighter to keep her hands from shaking but it was only partly effective.  
When she finished her story, she couldn't look up from the dark liquid.  
"I know, from experience, that you're probably not going to believe me when I say this, but it wasn't your fault."  
The sentence caught her somewhat by surprise, and she looked up.  
The older woman smiled softly, "You're not alone in this. I have an idea of what you're feeling, and it's going to take time to feel better, but you will. You did a brave thing tonight. It might not feel like it right now, but you're going to be ok."  
The younger woman looked at her. Her lower lip quivered. She felt the shame and fear and pain begin to roll down her face in the form of hot tears, and she turned back to her tea.  
"I'm so sorry," the assassin said, "Just remember, you're not in that room anymore. It was a scary place, and you didn't have a choice. But you do now. You don't need to go back to that room. Whenever you feel like you're stuck there, you come get me, ok?"  
The tears were still rolling, but she sniffed and nodded.  
"You come get me and I'll get you out."

* * *

The second time she told, she didn't have to tell. She just showed.  
They had been spending more and more time together. But still there was a wedge between them. Finally, he called her on it.  
"I just can't help but feel that...there's something still between us. Can I help? Is it me?"  
She chewed her lip and fidgeted. She'd never been an especially touchy feely person. But this went beyond that. He knew it, and she knew it. But only she knew why.  
"I'm afraid you'll think less of me," she began, and he shook his head.  
"Never, my dear."  
They sat in silence for a while.  
"Are you sure?" she asked. Her body was clenching up, and her chest and throat were tight.  
He adjusted so he was looking at her. His eyes and face were human, but she could always see the soft, warm yellow glow behind them.  
"You don't need to tell me anything you don't want to. Take your time."  
She thought for a minute.  
"Can I show you?"  
He smiled softly, and nodded.  
She raised her fingers and they walked into the darkness together.

* * *

They stood where she had stood, just outside of herself in that cold, dark room. She could see it happening again, but this time she wasn't alone.  
She didn't watch what was happening, and she didn't look at him. At times, the memory seemed to darken. Then it would sharpen again to painful crispness. A palpable sense of anxiety and fear permeated everything.  
When it was over, and they were again sitting side by side on the sofa, she wouldn't look at him. She couldn't.  
Slowly, he placed his hand on hers.  
"Thank you for trusting me," his words were slow, and careful, "I'm so sorry for what you went through."  
The world was swimming and she realized she was crying.

* * *

She was still slow to trust him, but now that he understood, he could help. He was patient, and kind, and slowly the walls started to come down. Over time, as she chose when to invite him into her space, she started to feel not trapped, but enfolded, and protected, and loved.  
A hug turned into a cuddle on the couch. That eventually grew into long afternoon naps with her head on his chest and his arm resting on her back. He never pushed her. He let her decide what and when.  
Some days she pushed herself. Other days, she felt almost crushed by the shame and the fear. On those days the room became big, and real again. It was a leap of faith at first but when she was hurting, and afraid, she called for help. And each time, her two confidants helped her back out of the darkness and into the light.  
It took time, but she could feel a change happening. It reflected itself in a sudden surge in control and strength in her abilities. Her energy flowed with fewer blocks, and she seemed to have more to draw from. She was more precise in her intensity and direction. She noticed her muscles holding less tension, and she breathed easier.  
The triggers were still there, and maybe they always would be, but it was getting easier to quiet them. As time passed, she needed less and less help out of the room.  
One afternoon, pressed against him with nothing but bedsheets around and between them, she felt a slight twinge of something: anxiety, fear, maybe shame. It pulled at her, towards the room. She took one look, and turned back to her lover's hands and mouth. She took in his warmth and pushed the darkness away, and she felt the memories of the room fading away with it.  
She realized that the assassin was right. She was strong. She was no longer a prisoner, no longer a victim. She had always been a survivor, and a fighter, and the room had never changed that.  
And that was no small thing.


End file.
